Wednesday, May 30, 2012

The Marquee flashed in a pulsating psychedelic rhythm of vibrant yellow, green, and red neon lights under the starlit moons bright night here in Kandahar.
It read, "Come One, Come All, Welcome To The Taliban Cafe". Gunfire and Tomahawk missile blasts echoed from the distant valley. The putrid stench of rotting flesh and gun powder permeated the steamy air in this lawless dead-zone of Islamic degenerates.

The cafe host greeted me with a red eyed sadistic smile. He then led me to a polished red marble table where I was seated at the patio, gazing above, into the Kandahar stars as the Taliban played horseshoes in camel dung pits which were surrounded by small bonfires.
A Russian waiter wearing a red velvet robe handed me a menu and said, "Welcome to the Taliban Cafe, Drink Up! The Taliban Margaritas are laced with opiated crushed ice and poppy stems protrude from atop of our cocktail glasses like celery stalks from your beloved American Bloody Mary's!"
I replied, "Hell, I'm impressed! How about a double Banana-Strawberry Margarita, Pronto?"
The waiter returned within two minutes spinning a glistening platinum serving tray with the dexterity of a Harlem Globe Trotter, sliding me this radiating elixir of Kandahar Lightning. I pulled on the straw in savage thirst as the potion melted and dripped down my jowls seducing me with luxurious warmth and euphoria.

Feeling a bit more comfortable, I take a curious and altered gaze out to the horseshoe pit where echelon Taliban entertain themselves by coaxing a local boy to fetch an overthrown horseshoe. With not too many choices in the matter, the boy cautiously proceeds through the sand in complete fear then grimaces as the Taliban duck for cover.
Kaboom!!!! (Massive explosion)
I shudder and see him blown to pieces.
Hot flesh, blood, bone and shrapnel smoke clouds my vision. He was just smeared by a 'Bouncing Bettie' while the Taliban belly laugh in a sadistic state of elation. "That was a real hot rod!" Screamed the waiter.
The Horror of it all.

Liberally soaking my palette with this frozened warm cafe Margarita, I unblinkingly gaze into the menu. It reads "Smoke the hash and place a cash bet with the Taliban Polo Minister Of Recreation and get the line on the nearest after hours V.I.P. Kandahar, Casino Cave Bar where the deep players dwell."
My interest and curiosity was piqued in a state of pure Machiavellian need. I wave to the Russian waiter and he returns smirking while asking, "Would You Like To Place An Order?"
In my stupor I reply, "I need to see the The Taliban Polo Minister Of Recreation and request a shuttle to the Kandahar Casino Cave Bar."
I peel off a couple hundred from my bill fold then stagger off following another Taliban where they place me in the back seat of a 600 SL Mercedes Benz.
In a nearly blacked out state of diluted awareness, we drive off. As we wind through the bomb blasted streets, I can see the locals, hustling goat meat in the market square as Veal Marsala. Beautifully decorated with clove beads, sprigs of parsley and Mary Jane all the while they chain smoke opiated cigar blunts cursing in prayer.

When we arrive through all the layered, interwoven stream of Afghan madness, they lead me to the 'Executive Black Jack' table, where seated to my left was Dick Cheney and seated to my right was the God smacked cavalier, "Big Daddy" (GHWB), our high priest, sipping a Bartle & Jaymes Raspberry wine cooler,enjoying the decadence of Kandahar finest young candy, melting smoothly in a luxurious lap dance of pleasure.

It was a surreal moment. I thought we must be in ancient Babylon with the echelon of the Taliban as I notice Cheney and Big Daddy sporting robes of translucent hemp dress and sweated feet in Topsider leather sandals as the Jukebox blares a fanfare of Greatful Dead songs.

'Fire In The Mountain' was playing. They were also strapped with AK-47's, high tech capsule gas masks, and grenades. It was then I fully realized, It was 'Big Daddy' all the way baby!

Gonzo Paperz

Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish — a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow — to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested... Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.